Ask E. Jean: November 2005

Idle Hand-Maid

Oct 16, 2005

Robert Wright

Dear E. Jean: My brand-new husband of two weeks has a serious issue with me. He doesn't approve of me—this is a delicate subject, so I am going to use one of your phrases—"strumming my own banjo." He's truly God's gift, everything I could wish for in a man and more, but he feels that because I sometimes pleasure myself, he's not satisfying me. Worse, he thinks it's a form of cheating—an infidelity! Is there a way to talk some sense into this otherwise intelligent man? Or am I doomed to secrecy?—Idle Hand-Maid

Miss Idle, my adorable moron: Doomed? Dang! If this isn't the most deliciously dopey question I've received in 13 years. A bride in particular requires frequent practice upon her instrument, yes, but you must never discuss banjo rehearsals with your husband. Never. Unless he's one of those amusing lads who like to be entertained with lusty confessions (but I don't think he belongs to this league). Indeed, I'm concerned by your hub's rabid insecurity. Next he'll be asking to read your e-mails and meet every man in your office. Take a stand now. Or those banjo pluckers will be snapped into steel cuffs.

Dear E. Jean: Since I was 11 years old and heard there was such a job, I have wanted to be a TV producer. It was my obsession. Well, I'm 27 and an executive producer on a well-known show—and guess what? It's everything I thought it would be, but better! Only one difficulty: I've looked around and realized I have no friends, no dates, no other life. The cute bungalow that I bought last year? Everything's still in boxes in the living room. I've been so single-minded, I'm completely single! Help!—I'm a Big Deal Girl Now

Miss Big Deal, hunny: Give me a chick with an obsession! You breathe fire through your nostrils! (Nice, "balanced" young ladies employ only one nostril as prescribed by their yoga instructors.) The fact is that women who've accomplished greatness—Madame Curie, George Eliot, Joan of Arc, Gwen Stefani—achieved it because they had ambitions so big, it made the world small. The Big Mama herself, Simone de Beauvoir, fixated so thoroughly on her goals (founding modern feminism, keeping Sartre from boffing jeunes filles), she wore her hair in braids pinned on top of her head so she could save the 10 minutes a day it would take to style it.

Don't fret, my pet. All will come to you in time. The talents that brought you dominion over your career—Jenna Bush-grade social skills are required to rise to an executive producership, after all—will fetch you friends and dates. You probably have, like, 400 close acquaintances in the industry, right? Unpack those boxes, buy an engrossing frock, and throw a huge party. When you see someone you like there, make a date for poker, flea marketing, mountain climbing. The next thing you'll be producing is your other life.

Dear E. Jean: I'm 22 and have been dating a famous local businessman for a year and a half. He's 42 and my first serious boyfriend, so I'm very attached. But we've had our ups and downs. First: He was afraid to publicly announce he was seeing a girl as young as I am so soon after his divorce. (This insulted me, but I got over it.) Second: He dumped me during a business "crisis" with a two-line e-mail! Then when he tried to win me back, I stopped him cold in his tracks and left for Scotland.

He flew to Scotland and proposed in the most romantic way with a huge five-carat diamond! I said yes, though I thought the ring looked slightly wrong somehow. He makes over $750,000 a year, so I was worried he'd been ripped off by some shady jewelry store. When I returned to L.A., I found out from my jeweler that the ring was a FAKE! It was humiliating. I'd already shown it to family, friends—everyone!

First he tried to lie about it, then he said he couldn't afford the $100,000 ring he really wanted to get me, so he'd had a copy made. The next day he took me to the store and bought me a nice ring for $4,700—two months' salary for a 23-year-old guy. Whatever. He says he loves me. I still think it's a crappy thing to do. So do I stay engaged or not?—Semi-Bride-to-Be

Semi, my girl: Naw. Mr. Schmaltzy Sham is too shady, too ditzy, and too indigent to support a new wife. Since he lacked the scones to publicly acknowledge you, it will no doubt come as a relief when you ditch him.

P.S.: If this big faker makes $750,000 a year, hell, I'll buy you a ring. I suspect the poor schlub doesn't have a brain cell left in his head after his divorce (nor a buck in his wallet). Move on!

Dear E. Jean: My English is not my first language. I've been lived in New York about five years. I feel shameful that I've stay in here so long and still couldn't speak perfectly and confident out loud of people. I feel very disappointed for myself! I am a student of Fashion Institute and we have many speech needed to make in front of people!—From Foreigner Who Can Not Talk Well as American

My dear From: You talk with a directness so arresting, I'm afraid to mess with it. If you promise not to lose your refreshing candor, I'll give you two pieces of advice: (1) Sign up for the Seven Steps to Fearless Speaking course at the New School in Greenwich Village (less than 20 blocks from your university). (2) Join one of your great student clubs that meets nightly in dorm rooms, coffeehouses, auditoriums, dives, diners, etc., to argue about movies, books, sports, fashion, art, the war in Iraq...and start talking. This will help you feel comfortable thinking on your feet and hearing your own voice. Don't worry about what to say. Nobody will pay attention anyway. Speech is a cooperative art. Everybody's just waiting to get their opinions heard.

Dear E. Jean: I'm a great girl—funny, smart, and quite attractive. All my guy friends say they can't wait to find a girl just like me. And there's the problem. I'm always the friend—never the girlfriend. If I meet a man "with potential," I'm immediately designated "such a great friend." I flirt, I smile, I play the game! Even my friend who loves When Harry Met Sally doesn't notice me. I'm fed up!—The Funny Friend

Funny, old pal: Pour a shot of Hpnotiq. Toast to absent friends. (Or they will be in a week!) Now listen to Auntie E: You are turning the guys into friends, not the other way around. Trust me. A man will settle for the "friend option" only if (a) the woman is extremely ugly and/or over 80 years of age, or (b) the woman is transmitting a no-shag vibe so high, the guy has no choice but to be palzy-walzy. Next chap you meet, don't be a buddy. (You have enough buddies!) Instead, be a witch, be a belle, be a mystery, be a siren. Be yourself—be a woman.

Dear E. Jean: I've got a money problem, and I'm really ticked right now. While I toil away at my just-out-of-college first job, my boyfriend, who has been working for four years, makes a lot more money than I do.

I'm trying to stick to a budget, but my boyfriend makes it hard. I've cut back on shopping (it nearly killed me), and now I'm cutting back on expensive restaurant meals. But every night he wants to go out for dinner!

Even though I say, "Tonight I'm making us a romantic dinner at home," at the last minute he'll grab me and say, "Hey, let's go get dinner with Chad and Jason!" Only when I refuse to go does he offer to pay.

What do I do? I believe in equality of the sexes, but I also can't keep this up much longer. Can people in different economic brackets ever make it work?—Poor Girl

Poor, my girl: Address him gently: "You sexy posh boy! I love running riot in restaurants with you, yes! But look, darling: This is what I earn every month after taxes." Write it down. He'll stare at the figure in concerned shock. Continue: "Here's my rent." Start jotting down the sums: "Car payment...cell phone...utilities...insurance ...clothes...food. Now, if I spend $147 for peanut butter, oranges, jumbo M&Ms—this is how much I have left for restaurants." Hold up the number. Smile. Then say: "Can we cut back to once a week?" Of course, you'll end up going out three times a week, but he'll step up and pay. Sometimes the cold, frozen facts bring the warmth of understanding.

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